


And Believe Me, You

by orphan_account



Series: Let's Talk About Sex [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, bottom!Derek, feelings in this part!, pornstars AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's tender and <i>thick</i>, wrought with more emotion than Derek has let himself have in a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Believe Me, You

**Author's Note:**

> And finally here's part two of the pornstars AU :D
> 
> Not much to say, other than you might leave this chapter feeling a bit confused, and that's the point.
> 
> Also, in case you missed it: BOTTOM!DEREK

Derek grins at Stiles, whose sitting on the same plush red couch as before. (Except, Derek's pretty sure they're in a different room from last time, but it's definitely the same couch, so.. weird.)

Stiles, however, doesn't return the smile. In fact, he looks irritated. “What are you wearing?”

Derek blinks, “sunglasses.”

“Why? We're indoors.”

Derek loses his bravado fast. In all honesty, he wasn't sure why he insisted on keeping up this 'act' when it was obvious Stiles was going to break down that wall every time. “I, just, uh.” He swallows and starts again in an even tone. “I thought it'd be cool to incorporate—?”

Stiles stands fast and whips the glasses off Derek's face even faster, “no gimicks. No trashy little schemes or games, none of that bullshit, okay?” Stiles grins at him. “Just us, alright?”

Derek scrambles for air because how the fuck do you respond to _that_?

“Okay.” He answers as his hands find comfort in Stiles' hips. “Yeah.” He adds through thick overwhelm. Stiles smiles at him now, and laughs softly under his breath.

“Good.” Stiles assures, patting Derek's cheek with a sharp but painless slap.

The moment, full of far too sweet grins and easy going comfort, is broken by Jackson bustling inside, announcing his presence in the most obnoxious way he knows. (Or, Derek thinks, the _only_ way he knows.) Danny is fast at his heels, but silent and does nothing to stop Jackson as he loops Stiles and Derek into a weird sort of one armed hug.

“How are my two stars today?”

Derek fish-gapes at Jackson, at loss for an answer. Stiles shrugs, but he's smiling, so Derek doesn't take offense.

“Excellent.” Jackson says with a nod. “So, it's been a while.”

_'Two weeks,'_ Derek thinks, not that it matters because what he made from the first video is still burning holes in his pockets. It was _a lot_.

“We'll let you guys get reacquainted, and then just see where it goes, alright?” Danny intervenes, tugging Jackson back. “Since it worked so well last time.”

“Sounds good.” Stiles has this glint in his eyes, and Derek feels like he should be worried. But before he can say anything, he's tugged pas the couch and straight to the bed. Jackson whoops in the background and starts directing the cameras to follow. Derek, again, feels a little anxious in his skin. He never expected to adjust instantly to the whole 'Hollywood' feel of working for a real company—just because it's a company that makes porn doesn't mean it's any less Hollywood—but all the same, he'd hoped to be a little more comfortable this time around.

Stiles pinches him, the one little section of stomach that's loose enough to pinch but not loose enough to count as 'baby fat' or 'fat' at all. Derek snarls playfully, and earns a flick on the nose.

“Bad dog,” Stiles taunts back with a smile. Derek laughs and swallows Stiles' in return. They stay like that, a little tangled in the sheets of the bed and laughing against each other, until Jackson coughs awkwardly from off camera. Stiles rolls his eyes, which sets Derek off in another round of hushed laughs. Stiles hushes him, placing a finger at the seam of Derek's lips.

Derek opens his mouth around the finger and bites, teeth secure but playful around the digit. Stiles grins and sits up so that Derek's kneeling between the spread of Stiles' legs. Stiles pinches his side again, and Derek sucks on the salty sweetness of Stiles' finger. He takes in the finger until he feels a nail scratching at his tongue and a fingerprint pressing into his throat. He gags, a little, but doesn't let the finger leave.

Not, at least, until Stiles flicks his forehead.

Derek keens in loss as he feels more than sees Stiles' finger leave his mouth. Textured, slick and all ridges of skin and identity on Derek's tongue.

When Derek meets Stiles' eyes, he's reassured by the fact that he's not the only one lost in sensations. Faintly, Derek's ears catch the sound of the crew breathing around them, some heavy, some restrained—it's odd to think that not everyone who works at the company is gay.

“Derek, eyes on me.” Stiles says— _commands. Commands_ with a level of authority that Derek usually hates. But on Stiles it's a good look, a look that fits him like a tight and sensual suit, a look that partners well with his confidence and his talent. Stiles grins when he knows he has Derek's attention, and guides Derek into lying on the bed.

Stiles grins, on his knees as he shuffles closer.

“Suck me off?” Stiles asks softly, though his voice is firm and less of a question, more of a demand. Derek sits up on his elbows and takes only the head between his lips. He doesn't even take Stiles deep enough to lap at him. He only lets his lips rest damp and loose around the leaking head.

Stiles moans in delighted frustration. “You tease.” He grinds out and rocks his hips forward, just a bit. Derek responds by opening his mouth until his jaw feels ready to lock, and takes Stiles in fast and sudden. Stiles chokes out something, a cross between “Jesus H. Christ” and “Derek” and “Motherfucking son of a fucking bitch.”

Stiles rolls his hips and thrusts slowly into Derek's mouth. Each time he pushes in just a little too deep, there's a slick gagging noise, a hushed apology from Stiles, and a muffled moan from Derek. “God, Derek,” Stiles mutters, “so good,” and his head drops back, chest heaving and hips uneven in their slow movements. Derek grins as best he can around Stiles' cock, and grasps Stiles' hip for leverage. He pulls Stiles in faster, harder, throat flexing in swallows around the precome dribbling in his mouth.

Derek doesn't help the whimper as Stiles pulls back. Stiles instead shoots him a smirk, and aligns their bodies, head to toe, slotted together and cocks brushing thighs in little bouts of humping. Faintly, Derek feels something solid hit his foot, but it's gone just as fast and Stiles is hovering over him again, saying something, speaking fast in tones that Derek misses because of the blood rushing in his ears.

He opens his mouth to ask, “what?” but the words are a tangled mess in his mouth, and his mind is hazy. He can see Stiles grinning at him and getting comfortable between Derek's legs; he takes Derek by the knees and gently pushes his legs apart wider, open, exposed. Derek can see lube in one of Stiles' hand, the other already slicked with three fingers and dancing wet spots down Derek's skin until—

“Fuck!” Derek sits up, stilling and tensing as a finger slides in slow and easy. Stiles used more lube than necessary, but it helps, it's weird, it's okay.

Stiles is grinning, though he looks a little nervous. “I told you, remember? Next time, I'm on top.”

Derek opens his mouth to say _no_ he _didn't_ remember. But Stiles' single finger starts to thrust slowly inside him, pressing against him in all the right spots, a familiar but infrequent feeling that's rushing up Derek's spine and clouding his mind further. He falls back onto the bed as a mess of mind-melting pleasure and seemingly boneless limbs. He hears Stiles laugh sweetly, and one hand comes to stroke along Derek's chest. It tweaks at his nipples, tugging at them hard, harder than Derek thought he would enjoy. The hand scrapes through the hair on Derek's chest before making a beeline to Derek's cock. Stiles expertly jerks him, easily, sliding down the foreskin to get his fingertips against the sensitive skin of Derek's cock.

As one finger turns to two, Stiles presses a finger into the slit, twisting until there's a slight pinch, and Derek lets out a breathless yelp. He hears Stiles say “sorry” quietly, and Derek realizes Stiles' breath is hot against his skin. The grip of his hand leaves and is replaced by leisurely lips sucking at his head. “Couldn't resist a taste,” Stiles says as he pulls back to breath, then dives down again and takes him down, tongue lapping at the extra skin.

Derek grunts and forces his eyes open to watch, as two fingers become three and Stiles takes him down completely, throat gagging around the weight on his tongue, heavy and too much. When Stiles pulls back, he's left Derek's cock drenched, and his own mouth flushed pink and wet, open and gasping and Derek just wants to _gag it_ with something.

“Ready?” Stiles asks, drawing out his fingers and taking Derek by the hips. Derek nods and drops his head to the pillows again, throwing an arm over his eyes as he feels the nudge of Stiles' cock, wrapped in a condom, brushing at him. Stiles guides himself in, pushing in slowly, steadily, pulling Derek's legs up around his waist to press in deeper. Stiles secures one leg over his shoulder after a split second decision, and holds the other one open wide; Derek feels torn apart, vulnerable, _slutty_ at the way he's spread open on Stiles' dick, his dick that's thrusting in short fast thrusts.

Derek opens his mouth to say something, something about the strain in his thighs and how he can't figure out how to get his arms to move so he can grab his own cock, but instead what comes out is a long moan, garbled by Stiles' name and incoherent gasps. Stiles' thrusting picks up speed, he hunches over and his nails dig into Derek's skin as he thrusts faster and harder, relentless.

“Touch yourself,” Stiles lets one leg drop to guide one of Derek's noodle arms to his dick, “touch yourself for me, Derek.”

And Derek does, he can't resist obeying, he can't resist curling his fingers around his cock and stroking it just the right way. He's never been one for bottoming—it isn't his favorite thing. And even now, it isn't his favorite. But, when he finally opens his eyes and watches Stiles pounding endlessly into him, grunting and moaning under his breath, like he's on the verge of losing control and _coming_ , Derek likes it, _loves_ it even, if only to watch Stiles come undone from this view.

Derek groans, eyes trained on Stiles, as he jerks off to the scene above him. Every now and then Stiles will push so far forward that his stomach brushes the head of Derek's cock, causing Derek's hips to jump and their whole rhythm to change. Stiles will move faster, and Derek starts pushing back, rolling his hips in time.

Stiles' moans kick up a pitch, louder and harsher, “oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Derek wonders how often Stiles tops—or rather, how often Stiles tops people like _Derek_. “Fuck, god,” Stiles blinks, screwing his eyes shut to open them again, and when he does he meets Derek's gaze. “ _Shit_ , fuck, _Derek_ ,” His hips thrust forward once, rapid succession of three or four times, and then slow again, as a shudder runs through his whole body and into Derek's.

Stiles falls onto Derek, hips still swiveling in over sensitive movements, and kisses Derek hard. Kisses him like a parched man tasting water, like Derek is all he needs. It's tender and _thick_ , wrought with more emotion than Derek has let himself have in a long time. It makes him come, makes his seize up and tighten his grip, come spilling over his fist onto Stiles' chest. It makes him dazed and has him melting into the bed again.

The spell—because that's what it is, a blanket of _magic_ falling over them—is broken when Jackson claps his hands. “Nice! Quick and dirty, perfect, excellent.” There's the distinct sound of Danny hitting Jackson upside the head, and Derek laughs after it. Stiles grins against his skin, still out of breath and still inside Derek.

“Sorry,” Stiles says with a quick glance downwards, “just, one sec.” He pulls out slowly, and Derek twitches at the loss. Stiles still runs his fingertips over Derek's skin though, and they share a smile. “S'good?”

Derek laughs. “Better than _good_.”

Stiles grins and climbs off the bed. He messes with the condom, tying it and tossing it away. Derek rolls himself off the bed, slinking to the front room where his clothes are in a heap on the floor.

They dress next to each other, and Derek realizes this is really the first time he's seen Stiles in actual clothes. Derek watches as Stiles slips on boxers—heart ones, of course—and a stretched out purple sweater that seems a little too... _gay_ to be real.

Stiles catches him staring. “Shut up it's comfortable. I have a work out after this and—?”

“I'm in no place to judge.” Derek interrupts, motioning to the same raggedy blue jeans he wore last time he was here, and his t shirt.

“Black Sabbath is a little cooler than a purple sweater from the high point of the eighties.”

Derek grins. “Does it help that I've never listened to Black Sabbath in my life?”

And it must, because, clad in the sweater, boxers, and socks, Stiles doubles over with laughter. They continue to dress, and Derek is taunted by the way Stiles' jeans hang low on his hips. “So what're you doing here? I mean. You know.”

Stiles blinks back. “Oh, like, why do I do porn?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles looks wistfully out the window. “I just need cash. It's easy, I'm good at it.”

“Oh come on now, Stilinski, you and Derek are _partners_ now, don't you wanna fill him in on your whole life's story?”

Stiles shoves off Jackson harshly, face pinched and upset. “Fuck off, Jackson.” And with that, a half hearted nod to Derek, Stiles is gone, out the door.

Derek feels like he missed something. Jackson's scoff catches his attention, as does another smack from Danny. “He's a little touchy about all that.”

“About his life?” Derek asks, confused.

Danny makes a sympathetic face. “He's got a contract.”

“Well, yeah.” They all do.

Danny sighs. “I don't think this is really my story to tell.”

“If you don't tell it, he might never hear it.”

Danny shoots Jackson an angry look that has him flitting off to the next room. “Stiles made a deal with Jackson's _other_ business partner—the guy who runs the publishing company, below.” Derek 'ah's silently. “It's kind of sick, but.. the guy's fucked up.” Danny stares resolutely at the floors below them. “He's a sick fuck, and he's manipulating Stiles.” Danny grunts in frustration, and waves at Derek before storming off after Jackson.

Now Derek _really_ feels like he missed something.

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhh what could possibly happen next oooooooooh?


End file.
